


And Everybody Hurts

by TheEagleGirl



Series: pride before the fall [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Feelings (if you're into that), Introspection, Jon Snow doesn't think anyone loves him, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pre-Series, Theon Greyjoy is an idiot with feelings, Winterfell, actually a serious fic, despite the tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-12-06 15:20:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11603352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheEagleGirl/pseuds/TheEagleGirl
Summary: He doesn’t miss him, Jon tells himself, insists it over and over.He doesn't really miss Theon.(Or, where Jon can only lie to himself for so long.)





	And Everybody Hurts

**Author's Note:**

> So I've just jumped in headfirst to the Jon/Theon fandom. Hope you guys enjoy this!
> 
> Jon is aged up from the books. I felt squicky writing about a fourteen year old, so I thought of him as closer to the show!Jon's age (17/18).
> 
> Lots of Jon angsting and thinking.

Theon comes to him.

Jon thought, over the past two days, that there was no possible series of events that would lead to this. He and Theon would never speak again, and childishly, Jon was glad. He would never be able to look him in the eye again, not after…

Well, not after.

But Jon’s wishful thinking has made a fool of him again. He should have known Theon would never let him be. Jon angers too quickly, he is too easy of a target.

Theon thrives too much on the attention, on strife.

Jon would be willing to leave it be. To never speak to Theon again, to never bring this up. He just wants to forget how he so neatly made a fool of himself. Jon cannot look at Theon.

So Theon comes to him.

_“Always took you for a bastard, Snow. Didn’t know you were that much of a craven, though.”_

Jon screws his eyes shut and wills himself to calm down. He is alone now, and the only sound around him is the whisper of the water in the hot springs, the rustle of leaves around him. Now, he is alone. Now, he can think.

“ _What’s the matter, Snow? Don’t you know where to put it?”_

In Jon’s mind, Theon’s voice taunts him. Over and over. In flashes, Jon sees Ros, again. She’d been sweet, Jon supposes. Pretty, even, with hair like fire. But he’d run from her. He’d run from the room, hoping to forget, vowing to never father a bastard. A secret promise meant for him alone. But Theon had brought him and Robb to the whorehouse, and Theon spent more time with Ros, Jon supposes. And so his secret shame became a weapon in Theon’s arsenal.

He can spy Theon’s smirk with his eyes closed. Two days ago, he’d smiled that secret smile, the face of an archer whose shot was about to go home.

“ _Maybe you’re just afraid,_ ” the Theon in Jon’s mind repeated. “ _Because your mother was a whore, see. Maybe you’re afraid of fucking someone just like Lord Stark fucked her—”_

Jon can’t remember what he’d said back to Theon, only that it had been cutting, and Robb’s face had gone white, his mouth still hanging open to defend Jon. Jon can’t remember how long it took before he was walking away from Theon, how long before his sobs started to claw their way up Jon’s throat.

It’s been two days. Two days of Robb trying to talk to Jon, two days of not looking Theon in the eye. Two days of hiding Arya in his room from Septa Mordane just so he could have someone to talk to.

And Theon comes to him.

Theon has always been off-balance in the Godswood, which is why Jon is almost surprised to hear his voice.

“Done sulking yet?”

Jon doesn’t open his eyes. He can’t look Theon in the eye. He’s ashamed of himself, he’s angry, he’s so desperate for contact he wants to scream.

He does none of those things. Instead, Jon just rests his forehead against the Heart Tree, and inhales deeply. These are his scents. This is his wood.

He can deal with Theon Greyjoy.

Jon can hear the crunch of leaves beneath Theon’s boots as he makes his way across the grounds.

“Gods, Snow,” Theon huffs. Jon can hear him taking a seat. “Who knew you’d be this much of a girl when it came to crying over words?”

Jon doesn’t move. “I’m praying, Greyjoy,” he says, voice rough. “Leave me be.”

Theon’s voice is quieter when he next speaks. He sounds almost hesitant, but Jon knows it’s just because he can’t see that awful smile on his face. “What are you praying for?”

Jon doesn’t answer. There are too many things that he prays for, most of which will never come to fruition.

“Jon?” Theon tries, his voice soft, hurt. “Are you going to be mad forever?”

Jon opens his eyes. After closing them so tightly, it takes him a moment to blink the spots out of them. When he is ready, he turns to look at Theon.

It is a mistake. Theon is not smiling, as Jon thought he’d be. Instead, he is frozen, barely breathing. When Jon’s eyes meet his, Theon’s face blanches.

“Why do you care?” Jon asks bitterly. The words are so faint he’s not sure Theon can hear him over the sounds in the Godswood. “I’m just the son of a whore, aren’t I?” The words hurt on their way out of Jon’s throat, but he remains steely, his eyes dry. He is done crying because of Theon.

“I didn’t mean—”

Jon cuts Theon off roughly. “You never mean anything, Greyjoy.” Jon shifts his weight and is on his feet in a moment. Theon’s eyes follow him. “But you say it over and over, don’t you? Spewing your lies and your hatred and your little games all over. But you never mean it.”

“Jon—” Theon tries, but Jon is done listening to Theon’s excuses, his silver-tongued lies. He’s a liar, isn’t he? Isn’t that why he’ll tell Jon one thing when they’re alone and turn on him the moment someone’s entered the room?

Jon doesn’t let him finish. Blood roaring in his brain, he clenches his fist and turns to go.

He leaves Theon by the Heart Tree.

 

  
Jon remembers the first time Theon kissed him.

They weren’t alone. Robb had fallen asleep just minutes before, snoring drunkenly on Jon’s bed. Theon had insisted on Jon’s room, claiming that his own and Robb’s were too close to the Lord’s chambers for their drinking to go unnoticed; Jon hadn’t cared much once he realized that he was being included, for the first time, in Theon and Robb’s activities. The warmth had spread through his chest, and he’d let them in.

Jon, at the time, hadn’t known his limits. He’d never have gotten so drunk alone. But Theon and Robb egged him on, and the warmth and the liquor spread through Jon until he was tingly all over, until he was taking pulls from the skins Theon had filched from the kitchen.

It was strong mead. That Jon can remember. So strong that Theon had clapped him on the shoulder and laughed, told Jon it would put some hairs on his chest.

“I’ve got hair,” Jon had muttered, later that night, once Robb had drifted off to sleep.

“Gods, Snow,” Theon had groaned, “are you still on that?”

But Jon has that tendency, you see; Jon could never, ever forget what was said to him. Small sleights, once bounced in Jon’s brain, became bigger and bigger until they consumed him. As a child, he would spend hours disassembling comments Lady Stark had offhandedly said, looking for the hidden meaning. _Yes_ , he would ask himself, _but_ _what did she_ mean?

“I’m not a child, Greyjoy,” Jon had insisted, his voice growing. Theon shushed him immediately, and Jon lowered his voice, flushing. “I don’ need any mead to put hair on m’chest.”

Surprisingly, Theon hadn’t made fun of Jon for that statement. His gaze, when Jon met it, seemed almost warm.

“I know,” Theon told him softly.

Nothing could have sobered him faster than that kiss. Nothing could have gotten him drunker, nothing but the taste of Theon’s lips, the smell of his skin, the feel of his hair under Jon’s hesitant fingers. Mere feet away, Robb was sleeping. They were too close to discovery, and yet…

And yet.

Jon and Theon had kissed for hours, it seemed. Days, Jon would have told anyone who asked. The moments between his ragged breaths stretched on once Theon started for Jon’s jaw, for his throat. Jon had made a noise, he remembers. It was a high, whiny noise that, if he were sober enough, would have embarrassed him to his core.

Theon didn’t seem to mind.

 

  
At supper, Jon sits next to Arya.

He is never allowed to sit next to Robb, not even when it’s just the family dining, but sometimes Jon likes to sit next to Bran, or Rickon. The only person for his dark mood tonight, though is Arya, and he claims the seat next to her as soon as he can, leaving Jeyne Poole in a huff now that she can’t sit next to Sansa. Arya makes up for the sting of Jeyne’s glare, though, when she immediately grabs for Jon’s hand.

“Thank gods you’re here,” Arya gushes, her cheeks rosy. Beneath their feet, Jon feels Nymeria and Ghost nip at each other. Arya squeezes his arm. “Theon got sent to his room early tonight,” she tells him in a conspiratorial whisper. “He was rude to Robb.”

Jon rolls his eyes, feigning nonchalance when he feels anything but. “Theon’s always rude to Robb. He’s rude to everyone.”

“Not in front of Mother,” Arya says excitedly. “He wanted to get in trouble, Robb said so. And Mother sent him away for the rest of the night.”

“Good,” Jon says viciously. He should not be this angry. He spears a bite of chicken with more force than is necessary. “Theon deserves it.”

On his other side, Sansa huffs. Jon lowers his voice.

“He’s a right prick,” Jon mutters, too much to himself. Gods, his throat hurts.

Next to him, Arya’s eyes are wide for the fraction of a moment before she erupts into giggles. Even though Lady Catelyn glares at him, Jon feels a rush of pride at making his favorite sister laugh.

Appetite restored, Jon digs into his meal.

 

  
Theon is sprawled across Jon’s bed when Jon enters his chambers.

For a moment, Jon stands immobile. He clenches his fist.

“Get out,” he says, voice hard. “Get out, get out, get out.”

Theon does not move. “Close the door, Snow,” he commands, eyes on the ceiling. “Don’t want Lady Stark to ask why I’m in your chambers instead of my own, do you?”

Jon is gritting his jaw so hard he’s actually amazed none of his teeth have fallen out. “Why are you here?”

In a fluid motion, Theon is off the bed and marching past Jon. He shoves the door closed, bars it. Jon wants to open his mouth, to spit the poison that rests on his tongue, to shove Theon out. But he stills his anger. This is not the place for that.

“Don’t be a fucking coward,” Theon says when he is done with the door. Jon whirls to face him.

“ _I’m_ the coward?” Jon hisses. “You absolute—do you know what I have to put up with, when it comes to you? Your stupid jokes, your stupid smirks. I could put up with it before, but—”

“I’m sorry!” Theon shouts, and Jon can see his anger spilling over. “I said something stupid, I know I did. But I—”

“It’s not just that,” Jon interrupts. His voice is cold, dead. It stops Theon in his tracks. “I’ve been dealing with your words since we were children, Greyjoy. What I cannot stand is why you do it. Why are you this way with me,” Jon gestures between them almost helplessly, “when all you do when we’re in public is try to humiliate and upset me?”

“It’s what we do,” Theon says weakly. “Jon, we always snipe and fight and insult one another. How would I have known…?” He trails off, and his hands flutter at his sides, as if he wants to reach out and touch Jon.

Jon isn’t sure if he would welcome Theon’s touch right now. He aches for it, for the warmth of another person touching him freely, wants Theon’s embrace. He’s allowed himself to get used to it, Jon admits to himself. He should never have allowed himself to like it.

“I don’t mind so much when it’s you trying to rile me up,” Jon confesses, the fight drained from him. He wants his bed. He wants to curl up next to Ghost and sleep.

“Then what?” Theon asks, almost desperate. Jon has never seen him this anxious before.

“I mind,” Jon begins, then composes himself. He tries again. “I mind when you do it to impress other people. When you poke fun and insult me in front of Robb, to…to…to _prove_ something. I thought you said we have nothing to prove. And what was that? Taking me to Ros? As if…” Jon’s voice breaks. “As if I’m not enough?”

Theon, shamed, cannot meet Jon’s eyes. Pity. It’s just the moment that Jon finally feels ready to look back.

“I hurt you,” Theon says, finally. “I’m sorry, Jon. I didn’t realize you would get so upset.”

With that, Theon steps around Jon. There is something almost…cowed in his demeanor. When he unbars the door, Jon almost calls him back.

Almost.

 

  
Theon is unbearably kind to Jon in the days that follow.

It’s an almost invisible kindness, as is anything concerning Jon when it really matters. Theon hands him his sword when it is knocked out of his hand during practice. Theon examines the bruise on Jon’s arms with such soft care that Jon nearly weeps and begs him to come back. Theon passes him the onion soup before he takes it for himself, and Jon feels the tingle of contact where their fingers meet.

It nearly drives Jon mad, this almost-conversation that seems to stretch out after their confrontation.

 _I have to be strong,_ Jon reminds himself. Theon hurt him, that was what Theon was good at. Theon, with his smiling face and his snarled barbs and his hard eyes. Theon hurt. Jon didn’t want to hurt anymore.

What was that thing Lady Catelyn had once told Jon’s father? Jon had been tucked away in the corner of a library, and Lord Stark had been preparing to visit with the Mormonts. Lady Catelyn found Lord Stark there, and Jon heard her voice carry over the stacks.

_Distance makes the heart grow fond._

_You don’t miss him_ , Jon tells himself, insists over and over. You only miss what he gave you. Attention, contact, the tender care, the careless embraces Jon never got from anyone but his little sister. _You don’t really miss Theon_.

Jon has never been a good liar, especially not to himself. A bastard must craft some lies, to be sure. A bastard must pretend he does not hurt when he is insulted, must tell himself that someone, _somewhere_ , he is wanted. Those are the lies Jon allows himself to believe, because without them, he isn’t quite sure who he’d be. But he cannot believe this one he tells himself now.

 

 

When Jon was a child, Ser Rodrick put a practice sword in his hand. It’s the one thing he’s pursued with anything like a passion. Jon knows that in this world the only way for him to make a real name is with the use of his sword. He prides himself on knowing that he is better than his trueborn brother. It is one of the few things he can really take pride in.

Theon has not fought Jon in years. When he picks up a shield in practice, Jon is puzzled, but only for a moment.

Jon is kitted in full armor, while Theon wears only half of his. He’d been practicing archery earlier, and there hadn’t been a need. Jon resists the impulse to take his armor off as well. He’ll be slower with it on.

“Shall we begin?” Theon asks, in his lazy way of not really asking at all; his smile is fixed in place.

Jon does not answer, simply raises his shield.

Theon is good. Not one of the greats, not near Jon’s level. But he’s fast, and it takes Jon a few minutes to disarm him. Theon gets in a jab to Jon’s hip that stings, once the blood has settled and Jon can see straight, but Jon thinks he’s come out on the better end. Theon’s nose is bloodied.

“Good job!” Robb says, clapping Jon on the back of his armor. His brother’s praise, though sweet, does nothing to move Jon’s eyes from Theon’s face. “Better luck next time, eh, Theon?”

Theon says nothing, but raises an eyebrow at Jon. His dark hair has falled into his eyes, and the guilt in Jon’s heart is drowned by the roar of…well, something. Jon can’t quite put a name to it.

Robb slings an arm around Jon’s shoulder. “We could go to the hot springs,” he suggests. “Soak the pain away.”

Jon shakes his head mutely. He tears his eyes from Theon’s. “I—I’m going to my chambers. For a bath. I—”

With that, Jon escapes from under Robb’s arm and walks away.

Theon follows, though not right away. He finds Jon in his chambers, struggling with a part of his armor. Earlier in the training yard, Jon had fought against Ser Rodrick, and his back was a mess of bruising. When Jon looks up from his sorry attempts to maneuver around in his practice armor, there he is, standing in Jon’s doorway.

Theon.

Theon clears his throat and tries for a smile. It doesn’t quite work, but Jon is suddenly glad of his attempts. It lets him pretend that there isn’t this chasm between them, that Jon cannot allow himself to fall back into Theon’s orbit.

“Need a hand?” Theon asks.

Jon’s hand flutter helplessly about the buckle he cannot reach. “I—you don’t have to—” Jon stutters, but that is all the allowance Theon needs before he is stepping into the room and kicking the door shut.

Jon can almost feel the heat of him, once Theon positions himself before him. Shutting his eyes, Jon tries to breathe, tries not to focus on Theon’s breath so close to his face, on the pressure of Theon’s fingers on his shoulder.

The first buckle comes undone. Jon does not move. Nor does he when the second, the third, or the last of them. The practice armor falls to the ground with a soft thud, and Jon still does not move, does not open his eyes. He can pretend, when he has his eyes shut. He can lie to himself.

Theon must take bravery from Jon’s stillness, because he does not leave yet. Jon feels two of his fingers nudge under the neckline of his sweaty tunic. It’s the first contact Jon has allowed Theon in days. He feels Theon slide them down, till he is tugging on the laces, and the neck of the tunic falls open.

Jon exhales softly when Theon presses his lips to the spot where his neck meets his right shoulder.

They don’t make a sound. It doesn’t seem right, to upset this fragile thing that Jon can feel growing between them. So when Theon urges the tunic over Jon’s head, he does not protest. When Theon’s fingers skim the bruise on his hip, dip into his trousers to feel it fully, Jon does not raise a word of alarm.

When Theon kisses Jon, it is usually with a reckless abandon that sets his skin aflame. His kiss now is soft, inquiring.

Scared.

Jon opens his eyes. Theon’s blue ones meet his.

“I’m sorry,” Theon breathes against Jon’s lips. “I do—I do want attention, sometimes, and I do say stupid things. I didn’t think they hurt you because I didn’t think—you’ve never gotten hurt from the stupid stuff I say, anyway. Or—at least—I didn’t notice your hurt. I’m sorry, Jon.”

Jon doesn’t think he could speak if he tried. His throat is bubbling with the emotions that ache to be released. He wants to forgive Theon, he wants to shove him away, he wants…

Jon just wants. And he doesn’t often get what he wants.

Studying Jon’s face, Theon seems to have come to a decision. Slowly, he drops to his knees before Jon.

“Lean against the bedpost,” Theon tells him. Jon steps over his discarded armor, kicks it away. Theon’s fingers come to the placket of Jon’s trousers, hover over the laces. Almost against his will, Jon is nearly hard. His cheeks flush in embarrassment, but Theon strokes Jon’s leg once, twice.

“Shh,” he murmurs against the bruised skin of Jon’s hip. Jon realizes that he’s breathing too quickly, that he has been since Theon kneeled before him.

Jon can’t help himself; he takes in a sharp breath when Theon takes him into his mouth. Theon has _never_ —Jon had offered, once, when Theon had kissed him so hard Jon wasn’t sure when he ended and Theon began, but Theon had taken a look at Jon’s nervous face and snaked his hands into Jon’s trousers instead. This was— _vastly_ different.

Jon get lost in it, nearly. He tries to only think about this moment, but Jon is nothing if not a worrier. For a second he wonders if Theon knows how to do something this wonderful because he’s been visiting whores since he’d turned five-and-ten. For a second, Jon wonders he means anything to Theon at all.

And then Theon begins to move.

Jon grabs behind him for purchase, but the bedpost is not that wide; his hands end up in Theon’s hair. Theon hums in what Jon believes is appreciation, and the vibration around Jon sends a shiver up his spine.

Jon does not last long. His blood is up from the fighting, his skin is warm and he is relaxed, finally. He comes with a strangled cry and tries to remember not to pull Theon’s hair so hard.

Without Theon to hold him up, Jon’s legs have turned to rubber; he slides down the bedpost and sits on the floor, dazed. Theon returns to him after he’s spit Jon’s seed in the cup by his bedside and wraps his arms around Jon’s bare chest.

Jon can’t help himself. He leans into Theon’s touch. He could hardly be blamed. No one ever touches him this way.

For a long, silent moment they are quiet. Comfortably so. But then Jon asks, “What does this mean for us?”

Theon’s arms tighten around him, and Jon can hear his smile against his hair. “We continue as we always have done, I suppose. Bickering, squabbling boys that we are.”

Jon manages a weak smile. _Will that work?_ He wants to ask.

Theon continues, “I’ll try not to upset you too much, though. I didn’t know before. Is that…” his voice changes. It’s no longer satisfied and lazy. It’s unsure, and that is what endears him to Jon more than anything else. “Is that alright?”

It isn’t. Jon knows they cannot carry on like this forever. Theon will hurt him again; if not now, then some day. Jon is not so free with his affections that he can afford that hurt, but…

No one touches him like Theon does. No one infuriates him, lights him up, makes him smile, makes him cry. Not like Theon does.

Theon is still against Jon. Waiting. Jon considers stretching the moment out to torment him, but decides against it. He’s not like Theon in that way.

“It is,” Jon mumbles against Theon’s arm.

Theon’s kiss is like wildfire against Jon’s lips.

**Author's Note:**

> So! Please let me know what you guys think! This is my first fic for Jon/Theon, and I'd love to know what everyone liked about it. I tried a slightly different writing style/narration. Let me know if it worked! If you guys like it, I may continue this as a series.
> 
> Thanks, and enjoy!


End file.
